


Darling

by Jake



Series: Soulmates [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6741562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jake/pseuds/Jake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damn, it was his birthday, wasn’t it? 18, finally, and while there were certainly pros to that, the whole getting a soulmate thing wasn’t really one of them. Like sure, that’s cool and all, but he really did not have time for that right now, and it seemed like a lot of unnecessary hassle, especially when his mum saw his tattoo.<br/>Stepping closer, he read the tattoo, closed his eyes, and sighed. Grantaire was right. His reputation was ruined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling

Bahorel was slightly concerned when Grantaire suddenly collapsed onto the floor at their gym, shaking silently, his curls bobbing about in front of his face with the movement. Kneeling slowly, Bahorel began to reach out, slightly wary, although if this was a last desperate distraction to win their sparring match, he thought it a little over the top, quite frankly.

“R?” he asked, placing a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, “You okay?”

And then he heard the giggles.

Grantaire looked up, raising one hand to half hide his smile as he allowed his laughter to subside, Bahorel raising an eyebrow and rolling his eyes at his friend, who, now calm, had begun to smirk.

“What is it?”

“Well,” began Grantaire, “I think that’s sufficiently damaged your whole tough boxer reputation. Good job, too, you were getting insufferable.”

At Bahorel’s frown, Grantaire gestured to the mirror on the wall across from them, and, with a sinking feeling in his chest, he approached it, aware that Grantaire had picked himself back up and was following him with that awful grin on his face.

Damn, it was his birthday, wasn’t it? 18, finally, and while there were certainly pros to that, the whole getting a soulmate thing wasn’t really one of them. Like sure, that’s cool and all, but he really did not have time for that right now, and it seemed like a lot of unnecessary hassle, especially when his mum saw his tattoo. Which is why he had conveniently forgotten what today was. It seemed that would backfire on him. And because Grantaire’s a little shit and he’d seen it first, the chances of his mother not finding out what his tattoo said and subsequently beginning a nationwide search in order to track down his soulmate, were absolutely nil. Unless of course, he killed Grantaire. I mean, that was always an option. This fight was incontestable proof that he could absolutely take him, and he was sure Eponine wouldn’t mind helping to hide the body. Eponine was good at stuff like that.

Resigned, he stepped in front of the mirror, scrutinising his arms and shoulders – that was where most of his friends’ had appeared – until his eyes landed on a small, curling script at the bottom of his ribs, a tiny border surrounding it. Stepping closer, he read the tattoo, closed his eyes, and sighed. Grantaire was right. His reputation was ruined.

Behind him, he heard a snicker.

“I will punch you.” Said Bahorel, and did.

 

Two years later, it was a Monday. Probably. It’s usually Monday. The point was, it was a weekday, which meant that Grantaire had to be awake in the morning. He wouldn’t have had to be awake so early if he hadn’t procrastinated booking studio space online until only obnoxious o’clock AM was left, but if anyone reminded him of that, there was a high probability he would punch them.

Groaning, he slipped out of bed, fumbled in the box at the end of his bed which was still not fully unpacked, and pulled some clothes on. Pouring the end of a bottle into the mug on his desk and tugging on the already paint-stained hoodie on the floor (the studio had literally only been open a day so far this year), he grabbed his bag and slipped through the door, stumbling into the elevator.

He was just attempting to curl so far into the corner that he merged with the wall of the elevator when a younger man with a bright shirt and blazer practically skipped into the lift. He ran his eyes over Grantaire for a second, looking like he was about to say ‘good morning’, or something along those lines, then seemed to have thought better of it. Smart move.

When another, even younger looking man stepped in, Grantaire sighed quietly. He forgot there would be new students.

“Coffee?” the youngest one asked, smiling.

“Vodka.” Grantaire mumbled in reply, because although it was Monday and entirely too early to be communicating with other humans, he wasn’t so rude as to ignore the excitable child that had appeared before him to disrupt his peace. Also partly because the sudden shock and concern on his face was kind of funny.

“Glitter.” Replied the lift’s other occupant.

 

He was actually early to the studio, living proof that miracles can happen, which gave him time enough to set up his canvas board and get out paints, because although he only had three hours, he knew that if he didn’t put some amount of colour on it today, he would have no motivation to come back tomorrow. Grantaire wasn’t really a fan of line drawings.

Seven minutes after they were supposed to arrive, Jehan walked in, tiny body drowning in an almost offensively floral shirt that almost reached their knees, boyfriend jeans leaving an inch or two above their daisy-patterned boots. Their hair was, as always, exactly what Grantaire had asked for; an elaborate, curled updo was peppered with daisies that were probably picked on the way to the studio, and forget-me-nots which contrasted beautifully with the rich ginger of their hair. They hugged Grantaire, and when they pulled away, wisps of hair were escaping from behind their ears.

“So, how am I sitting?” Jehan asked, perching themselves on the stool in front of the easel.

Grantaire attempted to illustrate, using his hands, awkwardly at first, but Jehan slipped instantly into the whole Art Nouveau thing Grantaire was going for, thankfully. It was intended to be a sort of watercolour Mucha-style painting, and he wasn’t currently at all sure of how that was going to work, but he’d probably figure it out eventually.

 

Jehan had been dreaming, sort of. As much dreaming as possible when awake, which could be argued is more than when asleep. As they pondered what the merits of sleep could be if it were possible to dream more when awake, their right hand moved over their arm instinctively. Their sleeve rolled up, they were covering the exposed skin with words, which were sometimes related, often not, and probably only they would be able to find a phrase in the mess of letters scattered across their wrist.

They enjoyed sitting for Grantaire; the two had been friends since meeting at an art museum last year, and had the wonderful kind of friendship where talking is wholly unnecessary a lot of the time. This was especially fortunate as neither of them communicated well whilst working, Grantaire particularly irritable during the line drawing stage of whatever he was doing. 

The scratch of the pencil paused, and Jehan was pulled from their thoughts as Grantaire walked over to them with a silk scarf probably big enough to wrap around them three times. 

“I feel weird asking you to strip for me,” said Grantaire, grinning awkwardly, “But I’m going to have to ask you to strip for me.”

Jehan put their pen down, and began unbuttoning their shirt.

“Okay, if you just take your shirt off, yeah, and then I’ll wrap this round you somehow.” Grantaire knew what he was doing. Kind of.

“This okay?” Jehan asked, conscious that the arm with half formed poems was still visible and angled towards Grantaire.

“Yeah, sure, great.” He replied, heading back to his easel, before he noticed something. “Hey, is that your soulmate tattoo?”

There were a couple of letters, in block capitals, visible under the silk, and Grantaire pushed back the fabric to read them.

“You sure about this, darling?” He queried.

Jehan shrugged. “Is anyone sure of anything?”

 

One and a half hours later, and there was gold at the top of Jehan’s head, the beginnings of a sunrise around it – sunrise, not set, as he knew Jehan would often wake before the sun just to see it rise, legs crossed on the windowsill of their flat, cacti moved to make way for them.

Grantaire was returning his paints to his bag, washing off his brushes, and Jehan was slowly unravelling the silk wrapped around their upper body, staring off into space. 

“Feel free to keep it.” Grantaire said. “I’ll need you to wear it again but after that it’s of little use to me.”

Jehan smiled, leaning down to pick their shirt off the floor. “Thanks.”

Grantaire frowned as he watched Jehan struggle with the buttons. “You know, I have no idea how I haven’t seen you shirtless before, but you’re a heck of a lot more toned than I expected.”

Jehan shrugged. “Martial arts.”

He nodded. “When’s the last time you fought anyone?”

Another shrug. “A while. I got distracted.”

“Come to the gym with me, I’ve got a friend I want you to meet.”

 

Bahorel had not had a particularly relaxing morning. The reason his morning was not particularly relaxing was that he was studying law. Bahorel did not want to study law. Yes, he had chosen to do it, and yes, technically he could have switched courses at some point, but somehow, he was studying law. Honestly, he had absolutely no idea how it happened. 

But here he was, studying law, and it frustrated him. Therefore, being the good friend he was, he had texted Grantaire this morning and asked to meet him at the gym so he could beat him up. Bahorel very firmly believed that punching your friends was the best form of stress relief.

He was standing at the edge of the mat, vest on because when he came to uni he couldn’t really risk any reputation he might have over his tattoo, and he was bouncing a little, too agitated to stay still and reluctant to take it out on the actual punching bag when he had a very good one who was just about to arrive. Actually though, he didn’t want to waste exertion on the punching bag and then be tired enough Grantaire beat him. That would just be embarrassing.

 

A few minutes later, Grantaire walked in, trailing behind him what Bahorel, frustrated and distracted, just processed as a tiny person covered in flowers. As he watched said tiny person shed these flowers for the vest Grantaire was offering, it occurred to him that the flowers might possibly be a shirt. And then he was distracted, because they were heading over to him, and from the tension in their tiny shoulders and the focused look in their green eyes, it looked as though they were getting ready to fight him. Which, okay, was just ridiculous.

And then Grantaire said, “Hi Bahorel, this is Jehan, they’re going to fight you, okay? Cool.”

Which made it even more ridiculous, because you can’t listen to anything Grantaire suggests.

But the tiny person who was apparently called Jehan kept approaching Bahorel, a sense of complete calm visible in every aspect of their body, which was unusual because most people who were 6ft were intimidated by him, never mind people who looked barely 5ft2. About a metre away from Bahorel, Jehan stopped, cocking their head slightly and appraising him.

Well, then. “You sure about this, darling?” Bahorel asked, raising an eyebrow, unable to keep the slightly mocking tone from his question.

Jehan’s mouth curved upwards into a smile.

And then they said the words that were elegantly scripted onto Bahorel’s ribs, surrounded by a border of lavender and tiny watercolour forget-me-nots – was that a forget-me-not in their hair?

“Darling,” they began, tone matching the mockery in Bahorel’s, “You’re buying me flowers if I win.”

 

The bouquet sat on Jehan’s windowsill, the pale whites and lilacs of the elderberry blossom and lavender contrasting with the greens of the cacti surrounding them.


End file.
